“Indeed. I did not sleep well.”
“Wheredidyou sleep, by the by? On the side of the road, or at an inn, or–”
“A tavern with rooms above.”
“A tavern! How very…rustic. Did you and Miss Thorncroft happen to have separate rooms, or–”
“Separate,” he said through gritted teeth. “Most definitely separate.”
“That’s good,” she said with a sage nod. “Wouldn’t want any pesky rumors swirling about. Not with you about to become engaged to another woman, that is. Think of the scandal.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sure that is what you were doing when you invited the sister of our father’s hidden by-blow to Hawkridge Manor to mingle with our closest friends and family for a month. Thinking of thescandal.”
“We don’thaveany close friends or family, which is why I invited Miss Thorncroft.” Rising from her stool, Brynne removed her apron and hung it neatly on a hook pinned to the side of her easel. “I will admit, I did not anticipate that you’d have such a strong reaction to her.”
Weston’s foot slid off the step. “I am not–I am not having areaction.”
“Stuttering as well,” his sister said sadly. “It’s an unfortunate thing to see.”
“Enough,” he snarled. “That is enough. Enough with the endless litany of questions, and the thinly veiled suggestions, and the talk of marriage proposals. Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“I’m not doing a thing,” she protested, even as a damning smirk betrayed her. “But if Iwasdoing something, it would only be because I have your best interests in mind.” She sobered. “You cannot seriously ask Lady Martha to become your bride, West. She is wrong for you.”
“And I suppose you believe Miss Thorncroft is right?” he asked with a harsh laugh.
“Given she’s managed to chip through that infamous icy exterior of yours in less than two days, then yes, Idothink she’s right for you. At the very least, she’s a sight better than Lady Martha. Butter would not melt in that woman’s mouth. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.” Brynne took a breath. “Wouldn’t you want to be with someone you could love instead? Someone who was capable of loving you in return?”
“We are not having this conversation again.”
“But–”
“No.” It was not a request, but a command. “That is the end of it, Brynne. I’ve done you the favor of allowing Miss Thorncroft to attend the house party, but I am not inclined to indulge any more of this absurd dialogue. For the duration of this event, I do not want to hear any further mention of engagements, or weddings, or”–he winced just to say it aloud–“love. Not even ahintof romance. Is that understood?”
“You’re an arrogant prat, Weston Weston,” said Brynne, not without affection.
“So I’ve been told,” he said dryly.
“You could always be a bachelor for the rest of your days. Gamble away the family fortune and sink into a life of excess and debauchery.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tempt me.”
Weston spent therest of his afternoon inspecting the new aqueduct system being installed on the eastern, crop-rich edge of the estate to ferry water to the western side where drier conditions had yielded poor returns for over a decade. When he finally returned to the manor, just shy of sunset, he was informed that he had a visitor waiting for him.
“Sterling.” Expertly concealing his surprise at seeing Sterling Nottingham, the Duke of Hanover, standing in the middle of his private study, Weston sat in a large leather chair and gestured for his unexpected guest to do the same.
The two men had met at Eton. They hadn’t been best mates, per se, but they’d gotten along well enough and had extended their acquaintanceship beyond their school years, occasionally meeting up at a gambling hell or attending a race together. It wasn’t difficult to maintain a casual friendship with Sterling. As amiable and charming as Weston was cold and reserved, the duke was highly regarded by all who knew him.
“I did not think I’d be seeing you until the Season started,” Weston continued. “I wasn’t aware you’d accepted your invitation, or that you’d be here this early.”
“Wasn’t going to,” Sterling replied, remaining on his feet as he perused Weston’s large collection of liquor kept in a glass case trimmed in mahogany. “House parties aren’t my usual source of entertainment. No offense.”
“None taken,” Weston said dryly. “I am not overly fond of them myself.”
“Your sister has outdone herself with the decorations, as usual. I especially enjoyed the little soaps molded into hearts. Very sweet.”
Heart soaps.
Brynne hadn’t mentioned any heart soaps.
